I finish quickly, and the flush diminishes some of the creepy vibes, as does the hiss of surprisingly warm water from the faucet. I shake my head at myself in the mirror. Clearly, I’ve been watching too many horror movies. Usually, I’m mellow like my dad. Mom, on the other hand, is still convinced a kidnapper could come for me at any moment. She’d laugh about it but would actually be totally wigged out in here.

Once upon a time, my mother laughed a lot.

Outside the bathroom, I pick my way back across the dirty wet floor. I’m still alone in the rest stop, but Josh is approaching the door. I push it open for him, careful to leave him space for his crutches.

“Watch all that water,” I say, gesturing at the floor.

He nods, but doesn’t really look at me. “Are we the only ones in here?”

“Yes. It’s completely creepy. Where’s everyone else?”

“Checking the forecast and looking over the emergency kit. Brecken wants to put on the snow chains.”

I frown. “He can’t. There isn’t anywhere near enough snow.”

“Yeah, I tried to explain that.”

Maybe I’m imagining the superior edge to Josh’s voice, but I don’t think so. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just moves on slowly toward the bathroom. Yeah, I’m not imagining it. He’s cute, but he’s nowhere near cute enough to be this big of an ass.

I look out the windows where I can see the SUV trunk popped open. Harper, Brecken, and Kayla are beside it. I’m not ready to deal with the cold just yet, so I call my mom. She picks up quickly enough to tell me she was holding her phone, waiting on me to call.

“Mira.” Mom pauses after my name like she’s trying to hide her worry. “I’m so glad you called. Where are you?”

“At a rest stop,” I say, keeping my own voice as cheery as possible. “Merry Christmas Eve!”

“Merry Christmas, honey. Where are you exactly?”

I laugh a little but it’s forced and tight coming out. She’s stressed and sad and is probably staring at a map of Pennsylvania, plotting a way to rescue me from the big, bad blizzard. I wish I wasn’t causing this drama. Because I don’t want her worried. I want to show her some of my newest work—I’ve been experimenting a lot with shadow and light—and drink hot cocoa and ask her why the hell she kept the divorce from me.

But I don’t go into any of that. “We are at a rest stop on I-78. The roads aren’t too bad, but it’s very slow going. I think I’ll be later than I thought.”

“They’re not bad?” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.